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Творчество Джозеф Мэри Планкетт (на русском) Его
на розе не остыла кровь / I See His Blood Upon The Rose
(на английском) OccultaWritten Between November 1911 and July 1915 Seals of Thunder They say I sing in secrets—they have ears
But you will understand me, for I speak Invocation Sing all ye mouths of music, sing her praise Daybreak As blazes forth through clouds the morning sun,
The Splendour of God The drunken stars stagger across the sky, When God crushes his passion-fruit for our thirst And the universe totters—I have burst the grape Of the world, and let its powerful blood escape Untasted—crying whether my vision durst See God’s high glory in a girl’s soft shape— God! Is my worship blessed or accurst? The Living Temple O Covenant! O Temple! O trail pride And you must walk the mountain tops where rode Gabriel, Raphael, Michael, when the stars Fell from their places, and where Satan strode To make his leap. Now bend the cracking spars Athwart the mast of the world—and five deep scars From that strong Cross call you to their abode. Initiation Our lips can only stammer, yet we chant For all his beauty showered on the earth Is summed in thee, O thou most perfect flower; His dew has filled thy chalice, and his power Blows forth the fragrance of thy mystic worth: White blossom of his Tree, behold the hour! Fear not! thy fruit is Love’s most lovely birth. Aaron I am the Seer: for in you I see I am the Poet, but I cannot sing Of your dear worth, or mortal or divine; No music hidden in any song of mine Can give you praise; yet the trimmed rod I bring To you, O Temple, asking, for a sign, That in the morn it may be blossoming. In the Wilderness Gaunt windy moons bedraggled in the dusk Blossom of burning solitude! High things Are lit with splendour—Love your glimmering ray Smites them to glory—below them and away A little song floats upward on the wings Of daring, and the thunders of the Day Clamour to God the messages it brings.
Arbor Vitae Beside the golden gate there grows a treeWhose heavy fruit gives entrance to the ways Of Wonder, and the leaves thereof are days Of desolation—nights of agony The buds and blossom for the fruits to be: Rooted in terror the dead trunk decays, The burdened branches drooping to the clays Clammy with blood of crushed humanity. But lo the fruit! Sweet-bitter, red and white, Better than wine—better than timely death When surfeited with sorrow—Lo the bright Mansions beyond the gate! And Love, thy breath Fanning our flaming hearts where entereth Thy Song of Songs with Love’s tumultuous light. La Pucelle She walks the azure meadows where the stars The battle-ranks of Heaven are marching past Squadron by squadron, battalion, and brigade, Both horse and foot—Soundless their swift parade, Silent till she appears—then quick they cast Upon the wind the banner of the Maid, And Heaven rocks with Gabriel’s trumpet-blast. Occulta Crowns and imperial purple, thrones of gold, Braver is she than ruby, far more wise Even than burning sapphire, than emerald Anchored more strongly to impalpable skies— Upon a diamond pinnacle enwalled The banners blaze, and “Victor” she is called, Youthful, with laughter in her twilit eyes. Heaven in Hell If the dread all-seeing stars, Once Immortality, a babe, Played with the Future’s astrolabe And marked a destiny thereon More splendid than the morning sun Leaping to glory from the earth: More wondrous than the wonder-birth Of the white moon from darkest rock; More strange than should the sun unlock His leashes and let slip the stars; More desperate than the clanging wars Twixt Hell and Heaven; still more great Than any favourable fate; But beyond all things beautiful, Beyond Mortality’s foot-rule Of loveliness, and little words— Sometimes, at twilit eve, when birds Lapse from dream-silence into song, Sometimes when Thunder’s rolling note Reverberates from his iron throat, They speak of such high mysteries But no one can interpret these— All of this dim and deep design If I should choose, its crown were mine To win or lose by my sole hand And heart. I chose, and joined the band Of Heaven’s adventurers that seek To climb the never-conquered peak In solitude by their sole might. In the dark innocence of night I fought unknown inhuman foes And left them in their battle-throes, Hacked a way through them and advanced To where the stars of morning danced In your high honour, there I stood To see you, till the morning-flood Burst from the sky—but your sunrise Striking my unaccustomed eyes Smote them to darkness, and I turned And stumbled towards the night. There burned In heart and eyes a drunken flame That sang and clamoured out your name, And woke a madness in my head. The enemies I had left for dead Surrounded me with gibbering cries And mocked me for my blinded eyes. I curst them till they rose in rage And flung me down a battle-gage To fight them on the floors of Hell Where solely they’re assailable. I took the challenge straightaway And leaped—and that was yesterday Or was last year, but every hour For weary years to break their power Still must I fight, but now a gleam Of hope comes to me like a dream, To-day, though dimly, I do see, My vision has come back to me. And I have learnt in deepest Hell I with terror-twisted eyes Have watched you play in Paradise, Tortured and torn by demons seven Have kept my heart’s gaze fixed on Heaven, Save when the smoky mists of blood Have blinded me with their fell flood. My desert heart all desolate Lit with the mirage of your hate I searched, my vision held above, For green oasis of your love. My heart’s dry desert, hot and wide, Bounded by flames on every side, So dim and old no song can tell, Covers the tombs where dead kings dwell: Now demons dance upon their tombs, Shut with the seals of lasting dooms, For them until the world be riven No hope of Hell, no fear of Heaven. But I, alas! am torn between The things unseen and the things seen, I alone of the souls I know In Hell and Heaven am high and low, High in Heaven and low in Hell: From pit and peak inaccessible To all but Satan and seraphim My song gains power and grows more grim. Only the straining of my vision Toward the playing-fields elysian Where you with starry comrades fling Your fervours over eye and wing, With deep and happy subtlety Flavouring the wine-bag of the bee; Thrones, principalities and powers Showering with Eden-flowers: With Michael’s sword and Raphael’s lute Slaying and singing, making bruit Of lovely laughter with your lips Sounding as where the honey drips At reaping-time by rippling brooks Twining between the barley-stocks: Only your shape that holds my sight, Your ways that fill it with delight, Your steps that blossom where you’ve trod, Your laughter like the breath of God, And all the braveries that extol The living sword that is your soul: Only your passion-haunted eyes Interpreting your mysteries: These are to me and my desire For pillar of cloud and pillar of fire, A gleam and gloom of Heaven, in Hell A high continuous miracle. Your Songs If I have you then I have everything You come rejoicing all the wilderness, Filling with praise the land to joy unknown, Fresh from that garden whose perfumes have blown Down through the valley of the cypresses— O heart, you know not your own loveliness, Nor these your songs, for they are yours alone. The Vigil of Love ILLA CANTAT: NOS TACEMUS: QUANDO VER VENIT MEUM? She sings, but we are silent: when shall Spring Of mine come to me? I as the swallow make Me vocal, and this desolate silence break? The Muse has left me for I cannot sing; Nor does Apollo now his splendour bring To aid my vision, blinded for her sake— Thus mute Amyclas would not silence wake And perished in the shadow of its wing. The wings of the imperishable Dove Unfold for flight, and we shall cease from sorrow; Song shall the beauty of dead Silence borrow When lips once mute now raise this chant above: Love to the loveless shall be given to-morrow, To-morrow for the lover shall be love. The Worm Joseph (I am a worm and no man—David) The worm is clad in plated mail He sips the purple wine of kings From burnished skulls and bumper hearts, Of fat and famine years he sings And fills his granaries from the marts. His brethren that have sold his name, Denied him to his ancient Sire, Shall seek him when they feel his fame Shall find him when they fear his fire. But you, O Benjamin, beloved, Dove-like and young, with him shall sup And then departing unreproved Bear with you his divining cup. The White Feather I’ve watched with Death a dreadful year I took your terrible trust to keep, Deep in my heart it flames and sears, And what I’ve sown I dare not reap For bitterness of blinding tears. I have not scattered starry seed On windy ridges of the skies, But I have ploughed my heart indeed And sown the secrets of your eyes. And now I cannot reap the grain Growing above that stony sod Because a shining plume lies plain Fallen from following wings of God. Your Fear I try to blame Your name that’s known But to your heart, your fear has flown To mine: you’ve heard not any bird, No wings have stirred save yours alone. Alone your wings Have fluttered: half-forgotten things Come crowding home into your heart, Filling your heart with other Springs, Springs when you’ve sung Your secret name with happy tongue Loudly and innocent as the flowers Through hours of laughter proudly young. Young is the year And other wings are waking: near Your heart my name is knocking loud, Ah, be not proud! You need not fear. Fearing lest I Should wrest your secret from on high You will not listen to my name, I cannot blame you though I try. The Mask What have I dared to claim And I have ever sought But to proclaim your praise, I have regarded naught When wandering by your ways But truth, my only thought. What favour did I ask That might constrain your heart Or heavier make your task? But now that you depart Wearing a dreadful mask. And those accusing eyes As still as death and cold Making my soul surmise My song grown overbold And all my words unwise— Now is my claim from thence That you should hear your heart’s Pleading in my defence Before your praise departs And all your grace goes hence. No Song I loose the secrets of my soul I coin again a greater sum Of silence, and you will not heed: The fallow spaces call you “Come, The season’s ripe to sow the seed”— Both I and these are better dumb. I have no way to make you hear, No song will echo in your heart; Now must I with the fading year Fade. Without meeting we must part— No song nor silence you will hear. The Cloud (O cloud well appointed!—Blake) I do not know how you can shun I do not know how you can hate A heart so set about with fire, A sword so linked with heavy fate And broken with unknown desire. I see your eyes with glory blaze And splendour bind your dusky hair, And ever through the nights and days My soul must struggle with despair. Your beauty must forever be My cloud of anguish, and your breath Raise sorrow like the surging sea Around the windy wastes of death. Moriturus Te Salutat These words that may not reach your heart The passions of my tortured mind Trouble but lightly your calm soul— No ugliness besets the blind— A shadow on darkness is the whole Of my misfortune in your mind. And yet I love you that you say You will not love me—truth is hard, ’Twere so much easier to give way And stay the death-stroke, my reward— Courage, brave heart! ’tis Love you slay. The Dark Way Rougher than Death the road I choose Set but a limit to the loss And something shall at last abide The blood-stained beams that form the cross The thorns that crown the crucified; But who shall lose all things in One, Shut out from heaven and the pit Shall lose the darkness and the sun The finite and the infinite; And who shall see in one small flower The chariots and the thrones of might Shall be in peril from that hour Of blindness and the endless night; And who shall hear in one short name Apocalyptic thunders seven His heart shall flicker like a flame Twixt hell’s gates and the gates of heaven. For I have seen your body’s grace, The miracle of the flowering rod, And in the beauty of your face, The glory of the face of God, And I have heard the thunderous roll Clamour from heights of prophecy Your splendid name, and from my soul Uprose the clouds of minstrelsy. Now I have chosen in the dark The desolate way to walk alone Yet strive to keep alive one spark Of your known grace and grace unknown. And when I leave you lest my love Should seal your spirit’s ark with clay, Spread your bright wings, O shining dove,— But my way is the darkest way. Toihthe No hungry star ascendant at my birth You say you are unworthy—how can I Fend from your truth the self-destroying dart? Within my shield of vision is no part Of mirrored certitude you can deny; You are what God has made you—and my heart, And in this faith at least I’ll live and die. The Living Wire I thought I’d never hear your tongue The barriers of space were spread Widely between us, when a shaft Of driven lightning broke their dread, Leaping—and you had laughed. The harp-strings in the house of gold Vibrate when chants the heavenly choir, My heart bound to your heart you hold With love—and a living wire. We are not separate, we two, (Alas, not one) beneath our feet The blessed earth binds me to you, The stones upon the street. The very stones cry out: No more Seek separate paths, each step you’ve trod Brings you but nearer than before Home to your heart—and God. Die Taube To-day when I beheld you all alone Far have you flown, and blows of battle cease To drape the skies in tapestries of blood, Now sinks within my heart the heaving flood And Love’s long-fluttering pinions I release, Bidding them not return till blooms the bud On olive branch, borne by the bird of peace. The Spark Because I used to shun Because I used to pray That living I might see The dawning light of day Set me upon my way And from my fetters free, Because I used to seek Your answer to my prayer And that your soul should speak For strengthening of the weak To struggle with despair, Now I have seen my shame That I should thus deny My soul’s divinest flame, Now shall I shout your name. Now shall I seek to die By any hands but these In battle or in flood, On any lands or seas, No more shall I share ease, No more shall I spare blood When I have need to fight For heaven or for your heart, Against the powers of light Or darkness I shall smite Until their might depart, Because I know the spark Of God has no eclipse, Now Death and I embark And sail into the dark With laughter on our lips.
Earlier and Later Poems Incorporating Selections from “The Circle and the Sword” (1911) The New Judas Thee, Christ, I sought to sell all day But “thirty pieces of silver” cried (Thine ancient price), and I agreed, Six for each of the wounds that bleed In hands and feet and side. “Including cross and crown” we priced, Is now their claim and I refuse, I will not bargain all to lose, I will not sell Thee, Christ! I see His Blood Upon the Rose I see his blood upon the rose I see his face in every flower; The thunder and the singing of the birds Are but his voice—and carven by his power Rocks are his written words. All pathways by his feet are worn, His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, His cross is every tree. The Stars sang in God’s Garden The stars sang in God’s garden; God ploughed His fields at morning, God sowed His seed at noon, God reaped and gathered in His corn With the rising of the moon. The sun rose up at midnight, The sun rose red as blood, It showed the Reaper, the dead Christ, Upon His cross of wood. For many live that one may die, And one must die that many live— The stars are silent in the sky Lest my poor songs be fugitive. I saw the Sun at Midnight I saw the Sun at midnight, rising red, O Sun, O Christ, O bleeding Heart of flame! Thou givest Thine agony as our life’s worth, And makest it infinite, lest we have dearth Of rights wherewith to call upon Thy Name; Thou pawnest Heaven as a pledge for Earth And for our glory sufferest all shame. It is her Voice who dwells within the Emerald Wall and Sapphire House of Flame: Behold! a white Hawk tangled in a twisted net of dreams A Wave of the Sea I am a wave of the sea My soul’s in the salt of the sea In the weight of the wave In the bubbles of foam In the ways of the wind. My gift is the depth of the sea The strength of the wave The lightness of foam The speed of the wind. White Waves on the Water White waves on the water, The bud and the blossom, The fruit of the foam From Ocean’s dark bosom Arose, from her home. She came at your calling, O winds of the world, When the ripe fruit was falling And the flowers unfurled. She came at your crying O creatures of earth, And the sound of your sighing Made music and mirth. She came at your keening O dreamers of doom, And your sleep had new dreaming And splendour and bloom. The Heritage to the Race of Kings This heritage to the race of kings The hands that fought, the hearts that broke In old immortal tragedies, These have not failed beneath the skies, Their children’s heads refuse the yoke. And still their hands shall guard the sod That holds their father’s funeral urn, Still shall their hearts volcanic burn With anger of the sons of God. No alien sword shall earn as wage The entail of their blood and tears, No shameful price for peaceful years Shall ever part this heritage. 1841—1891 The wind rose, the sea rose It sang the song of an old man Whose heart had died of grief, Whose soul had dried and withered At the falling of the leaf. It sang the song of a young man Whose heart had died of pain When Spring was black and withered And the winter come again. The wind rose, the sea rose A wave rose on the sea Swelled with the mournful singing Of a sad centenary. 1867 All our best ye have branded In the days of our doom and our dread Ye were cruel and callous, Grim Death with our fighters ye fed Through the jaws of the gallows; But a blasting and blight was the fee For which ye had bartered them, And we smite with the sword that from ye We had gained when ye martyred them! THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE SHALL BE RED AT LAST Because we share our sorrows and our joys Nomina Sunt Consequentia Rerum I felt within my heart awake and glow Nuala and Columba did I see Come towards the place where I was lingering, One marvel first, the other following, And, even as retelleth memory, Love said: That one who follows this our Spring Hath Love for name, so like is she to me. My Lady has the Grace of Death My lady has the grace of Death She found me fainting by the way And fed me from her babeless breast Then played with me as children play, Rocked me to rest. When soon I rose and cried to heaven Moaning for sins I could not weep, She told me of her sorrows seven Kissed me to sleep. And when the morn rose bright and ruddy And sweet birds sang on the branch above She took my sword from her side all bloody And died for love. O Lovely Heart O lovely heart! O Love Although the morning skies Are heavy now with rain And your incredulous eyes Are wondering at your pain, Let them but weep. And after give them sleep. O sorrowful! O heart Whose joy is difficult Though we two are apart— Know you shall yet exult And all the years Be fresher for your tears. I love you with my every Breath I love you with my every breath, You laid my head against your heart Last night, my lips upon your breast And now you say that we must part For fear your heart should be oppressed: You cannot go against the world For my sake only—thus your phrase, But I—God’s beauty is unfurled In your gold hair, and in your gaze The wisdom of God’s bride—each soul That shares his love, and yours and mine, Two lovers share your aureole And one is mortal, one divine: One came on earth that you might know His love for you—that you deny, Now you give me this equal blow: One died for you, and one will die. O Bright! thy Stateliness and Grace O Bright! thy stateliness and grace Solely thy native airs delight Can still thy silences embalm, Solely thy native leven smite Through thunders of unbroken calm. A twyfold presence is and seems To emanate from thine atmosphere, Clothed in reality and dreams It is in heaven, and it is here. The forms of love enfolding thee To flowers of earth and heaven belong, Whose roots take hold in mystery Too deep for song, too deep for song. White Dove of the Wild Dark Eyes White Dove of the wild dark eyes White Dove of the beating heart Shrill golden reeds are thrilling In the woods where the shadows start, While moonbeams, filling With dreams the floweret’s heart Its dreams are thrilling. White Dove of the folded wings, Soft purple night is crying With the voice of fairy things For you, lest dying They miss your flashing wings, Your splendorous flying. My Soul is Sick with Longing My soul is sick with longing, shaken with loss, I dreamt that love had lit, a burning bird On one green bough of Time, of that dread tree Whereto my soul was crucified: that he Sang with a seraphs voice some wondrous word Blotting out pain, but swift the branch I heard Break, withered, and the song ceased suddenly. When all the Stars become a Memory When all the stars become a memory Your praise shall ’scape the grinding of the mills: My songs shall live to drive their blinding cars Through fiery apocalypse to Heaven’s bars! When God’s loosed might the prophet’s word fulfils, My songs shall see the ruin of the hills, My songs shall sing the dirges of the stars. Your Pride I sit and beg beside the gate, Yet you have often wandered by, I’ve heard you sigh, I’ve seen you smile, You never smile now as you stray— You can but stay a little while. And now you know your task is hard, You must discard your jewelled gear, You must not fear to crave a dole From any soul that waits you here. And you have still your regal pride And you have sighed that I should see Your gifts to me beside the gate, Your pride, your great humility. If I should need to tear aside If I should need to tear aside But if I found your soul could save From hell’s deep grave my sinking soul Only if willingly you gave I’d take—and then I’d crave the whole Knowing you generous and brave. When I am Dead When I am dead let not your murderous tears Already I can hear the stealthy tread Of sorrow breaking through the hush of day; I have no hope you will avert my dread, Too well I know, that soon am mixed with clay, They mourn the body who the spirit slay And those that stab the living weep the dead. The Claim that has the Canker on the Rose The claim that has the canker on the rose I cannot ask for any thing from you Because my pride is eaten up with shame That you should think my poverty a claim Upon your charity, knowing it is true That all the glories formerly I knew Shone from the cloudy splendour of your name. Your Fault It is of her virtues you evade the snare, —Francis Thompson. Your fault, Lady, is to be ’Tis no virtue that you are Virtuous—nor for the star To shine, nor flowers to array Themselves in glory from the clay; That yours is wisdom old and new For this we praise your God—not you; Yet there is something we can still Sing in your praise—your wayward will; Something there is that you may own, Your faults, thank God, are yours alone Not heaven’s, nor ever may we doubt If these from heaven can shtit you out Ourselves shall storm the desperate road And welcome you to your abode. ’Tis for this fault we love you, that your eyes Regard not unattainable Paradise, That not amid the fiery stars you spread The nets of your hair, not ever towards the dead Set your unwavering feet, your gentle words Clothe not in thunders that make mute the birds, Nor yet perplex your pentecostal tongue With songs too crazy to be said or sung, Never make moan of other’s joys and fears And see all Nature weeping through your tears, Fly not, Icarian-wingéd, to the sun Leaving the many to pursue the one, Chasing, yet hooded hawk, a Shining Dove, Nor break your heart about the feet of Love. There is no Deed I would not dare There is no deed I would not dare, There is no death I would not crave If thus I’d save your heart from tears; To snatch your glory from the grave I’d brave all fates and feel no fears Although my heart be calm and cold And feel no flame nor mirth of Love, Nor buoyed with hope be overbold To seize and hold the shining Dove. But I do love you and I know Nor any deed nor difficult quest To try to compass, that would show The fire that bums within my breast; I cannot draw the dazzling blade My body sheathes. Love’s splendid sword, Lest you be blinded—and dismayed To silence fall my wounded word. If I would do each desperate thing Only to bring you ease or mirth What pinnacle for Love’s strong wing Towers above the heights of Earth? I cannot give your soul belief In the great visions of my heart, I cannot, and it is my grief Do aught to please you—but depart. New Love The day I knew you loved me we had lain Breathless we reached the brugh before the west Burst in full fury—then with lightning stroke The tempest in my heart roared up and broke Its barriers, and I swore I would not rest Till that mad heart was worthy of your breast Or dead for you—and then this love awoke. Before the Glory of your Love Before the glory of your love Each silent witness testifies Your wonder by its native worth And dumbly its delight denies That your wild music may have birth: Only this madman cannot keep Your peace, but flings his bursting heart Forth to red battle,—while they weep Your music who have held apart. To Grace On the morning of her christening, April 7th, 1916 The powerful words that from my heart The joy of Spring leaps from your eyes, The strength of dragons in your hair, In your young soul we still surprise The secret wisdom flowing there; But never word shall speak or sing Inadequate music where above Your burning heart now spreads its wing In the wild beauty of your Love. Prothalamion Now a gentle dusk shall fall See the Crocus’ Golden Cup See the crocus’ golden cup Signs and Wonders The bread is mine To a blinding car Four living creatures Enhamessed are, Whence One whose features Outshone the skies At noon, replies With her burning eyes— The eternal teachers— “Thy love is a sword In the heart of slaughter, Thy love is a word Of the high-king’s daughter, A song that is sung In a mystic tongue, A fountain sprung From the Living Water. “And thy love shall stand In the courts of splendour At the King’s left hand, Where she shall render The gifts of Love To the throne above, And a shining dove Shall there attend her. “For thy love is a sign In the Book of Wonder, A mark divine On the seals of thunder That Spirit’s light And the Water’s might And the Blood, red-bright Have witnessed under.”
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